Whose woods these are
by NairobiWonders
Summary: I needed a get-away from all the nastiness the world is presenting us with at the moment so I sent Joan and Sherlock off into a storm in the woods. Borderline joanlock if you squint and imagine
1. Chapter 1

The woods around them were darkening and the urgency of getting back to their cabin quickened their pace. Sherlock and Joan, investigating the disappearance of a local beekeeper in rural upstate New York, were caught off guard by the sudden storm and ill prepared for the change in weather.

His gloved hand covered her head as much as possible and brought her closer. They walked, buried into each other's side, holding on against the blinding rain and sleet that the icy wind drove into them.

"Just a little further," he reassured her. Joan had refused to take his jacket and her cloth coat was soaked and of little warmth.

"There," she pointed ahead, "there's the trail."

Sherlock squinted and confirmed, quickening the pace.

Small hail stones pinged around them as they reached the door to the old cabin the beekeeper's daughter had lent them for their investigation. The hinges whined and the wood moaned as they pushed their way in and closed the door behind them. The cabin lacked all amenities - no water, electricity or cell service. It was ice cold and dark, but at least dry.

They stood shivering for a moment assessing their situation. Both were soaked, hair plastered and bedraggled, flesh ice cold down to the bone. Intending this to be a day trip, they'd brought no supplies, no clothes or food.

Sherlock removed his gloves and scanned their surroundings, "Good. Firewood. I'll start a fire. See what you can find in terms of clothes. You need to take that coat off immediately before it freezes on you."

Joan was already in motion, shaking with cold but sorting through the towels and blankets their client kept in a small cabinet. She grabbed several towels and took one over to Sherlock where he knelt before the hearth. Joan placed it on his head and gave his hair a quick rub to sop up the dripping ice water.

"Thanks," he muttered, as she draped the towel around his neck.

"There are sheets, blankets and towels," her teeth chattered as she talked. "Nothing else."

He looked up at her, "Let's not stand on ceremony here. Take your clothes off and wrap yourself in the warmest blanket you can find."

"Way ahead of you," she held a dark wooly blanket in her hand. "This one's yours. It looks too itchy for me." She dropped it beside him and he smiled as she ran off towards the tiny bathroom grabbing a fuzzy green plaid blanket as she went.

The wicker sofa was dragged closer to the hearth. Sodden pants, shirts and coats were hung around the fireplace and from the mantel like Christmas stockings in hopes that they'd dry by morning. Dinner consisted of a can of beans they'd found in a cabinet and heated over the fire.

An exhausted Joan and Sherlock, attired in blankets, sat nestled up against each other on the sofa, a third blanket draped on top of both of them. The fire blazed, providing light and warmth; it's crackling competing with the sound of sleet pelting at the windows.

In quiet tones they discussed the case, their current situation and the likelihood of walking back to their car tomorrow morning without too much hardship. Eventually, they fell into companionable silence.

The flames began to die down. Sherlock placed the last log into the fireplace and returned to Joan who re-covered him with their mutual blanket as he sat.

"The fire won't last much longer." He looked towards the hearth as he spoke. "This may sound presumptuous but I assure you the intent is ..."

Joan shook her head and smiled, moving closer to him until her legs were tucked up and on top of his, "Just put your arm around me and shut up." Her tone was kind and teasing.

Sherlock did as he was told, opening his blanket up so she could cuddle in. She wrapped her arm around his waist and he brought the blanket back around both of them. Her head fit tidily beneath his chin. A content warmth filled both of them.

"One could get used to this," he whispered.

Joan looked up at him, and caught his eye. "One could... " she replied softly before snuggling back into the crook of his neck. He held onto her a little tighter.

They watched the fire slowly die out and gradually fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Cold.

Iciness embraced her. Sherlock was no longer at her side and all warmth had left with him. With a shiver, Joan opened her eyes, blinked and tried to focus. The storm had subsided and the light of an almost full moon crept in through the cabin's dirty windows, patterning the darkness.

His silhouette stood by the now cold fireplace, his blanket loose about his shoulders. He turned into the moonlight and she could see him taking down their clothes.

"Sherlock, it's the middle of the night and freezing cold. What are you doing?" His sense of priorities confused her on the best of days but this, this was just insane.

"Almost done," his response came stilted by the icy air. He placed her shirt between the folds of a towel.

Joan tightened her blanket closer about her, "Almost done with what?" She really didn't care what he was doing. She just wanted his body back beside her; his temperature ran hotter than most and right now she wanted that heat next to her.

"Done." He grabbed his bundles of towels and blankets. "Stand up, please."

She muttered, her teeth chattered and she shivered but Joan trusted him enough to do as he asked.

Sherlock lifted the cushions from the sofa and set the bundles beneath, "This will finish drying whatever small amounts of water remains in our clothes, and most importantly, provide them with a modicum of warmth, when we put them on in the morning. Frozen undergarments are not the most pleasant of ways to start the day, hmm?"

"Ah!" Joan nodded, "Good thinking. It's no wonder I lo..." She caught herself and bit her tongue.

He turned towards her, mouth slightly open, his eyes roamed her face. An awkward moment passed between them and an embarrassed Joan changed the subject.

"Are you done? 'Cause I'm freezing." Her shoulders shook, emphasizing her words.

"Yes, yes..." Sherlock quickly sat and bounced, squishing the cushions down over the lumps of clothes. Opening his blanket, he motioned her towards him.

The awkwardness of cozying up to a half naked Sherlock when she had almost confessed to an emotion that was anathema to him stopped her for a split second. Her freezing body though made the decision for her and moved with speed to his side. He wrapped the blanket around both of them; Joan found her place, her arms went around his waist and she tucked her bent legs on top of his.

They arranged the blankets for each other so heads and necks and feet were covered and then just held on tight. Together, they shook and shuddered attempting to dispel the cold.

"It's alright, you know," he whispered to the top of her head. "You can say the word. I know you love me ... as I do you."

Joan didn't move. Her body stiffened but she did not move. She could not look at him and talked into his chest. "I thought you didn't believe love was real."

Sherlock, at first concerned by the taut strain her body took against his, realized her dilemma quickly enough. "I spent a good eight months, and then some, pondering the reality of that emotion and the need for it and ultimately concluded that since I have felt love, it must be real ... at least to me. Mind you, I'm not talking about the flittery flutter love of poets and teenage boys. Romantic love is an illusion that soon fades away. If the true emotion is not standing behind it, all you are left with is a handful of air."

The words lingered between them before drifting out into the darkness. Her body relaxed against his and she nestled further into his warmth. He felt her breath, warm and soft, on his chest. She moved her hand slightly, her thumb, reassuring and gentle, stroked his side. For Sherlock that was enough, he understood his partner's response without the need for words. He carefully lowered his head to the top of hers and closed his eyes.

She listened to his breath take on the clothes of sleep; his heart slowing to a steady rhythm. In the cocoon of blankets they'd created, she turned over his words in her mind and studied them like a faceted jewel. Though, she had guessed his feelings long ago, the words' utterance were important to her.

"I love you." She exhaled the words, tattooing them onto his chest and placing a soothing kiss atop them.

To her surprise, Sherlock stirred, his lips placed several small kisses on her head before his arms tightened and brought her even closer.


End file.
